


Something exchanged

by naturegirlrocks



Series: Something new, something old... [4]
Category: Cabin Pressure, James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Impersonation, James loves his Q, Kinapping, M/M, Martin looks like Sherlock, they are cousins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturegirlrocks/pseuds/naturegirlrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie is kidnapped. There s a murderer killing mistresses. Sherlock has to be at two places at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summary

**Author's Note:**

> The forth instalment of the 'Something'-series. 
> 
> It will be updated, hopefully, once a day.
> 
> Thanks to My Beta Memprime!

What we know of our characters (based on previous parts of the 'Something'-series):

Clotilde Holmes, 70, widowed, has four children. 

The oldest one is Jennie, 48, who was born Reginald Jr, but is now enjoying life as a full female. She is the head of a banking firm, quite possibly the Bank of England. Jennie is married to the heart-throb Victor Trevor, 36, who is also her employee. She is also the founder of the Reginald Holmes Trust, named after the slightly bigoted Holmes-father, a charity that supports LGBTQ-rights.

Second oldest is Mycroft, 43, who might possibly be the British Government and unofficial head of the MI5. He is also one of the very few British people that can win negotiations with the CIA without pulling a gun. Mycroft has quite recently taken up a relationship with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, 48, of the Scotland Yard (who is divorced and has two daughters in their late teens). 

Third is Sherlock, 36, a consulting detective of extremely high intelligence, and of low understanding of sentiment. He is in a committed and loving relationship with ex-military doctor John Watson, 41. They enjoy good a sexlife even though Sherlock is mostly asexual and John isn't gay.

(Once, at university, during his run in with heavy drugs, Sherlock was in love with Victor Trevor, but we don't talk about that. Ever.) 

About six months ago Sherlock returned from pretending to be dead after nearly two years, because of a bad run in with (now dead) master criminal Moriarty. 

During his absence Sherlock in secret dismantled one of the largest organised crime-syndicates in the world. He also won a lot of illegal money that he's now investing in a private medical practice for John. 

Youngest of the siblings is Frederick, 33, 'Freddie' for short, or 'Q' to his colleagues. Freddie is a computer super-genius and the Quartermaster for MI6. He has managed to tame the infamous secret agent '007' James Bond, 45. (Before James met Freddie he had a reputation to shag anything with a pulse, now he is a one-man-guy.)

To the story belongs also Martin Creiff, 36, pilot and cousin to the Holmes-siblings. He is almost a splitting image of Sherlock. On a recent flight to Jamaica he romantically got together with the steward Arthur Shappey, 31. 

Next: On with the show...


	2. One

\-------

John admired his new office, it had taken three months to complete. The final piece, a beautiful antique oak desk, had only arrived this morning. 

It was a gift from Sherlock's mother and had belonged to his father. John had first refused to accept it, it was too grand for a small private clinic as his own, but his heart had melted when he saw Sherlock's initials carved on the underside of the writing-top.

"Must have been the summer when I got my Bowie-knife," Sherlock mused as John pointed it out. "Mycroft took it from me. He said I could have it back when I was older."

"How old were you?"

"Eight," Sherlock looked a bit thoughtful. "Excuse me, I have to make a phone call."

He left the office of 221c, and by the sound of his steps he seed to run up the stairs to their flat. John exchanged a look with Gladstone, who was sitting by his feet. The bulldog whined. 

"Don't worry, boy," sighed John. "Like I would let him have a Bowie-knife. I don't even trust him with the butter-knife."

The bulldogg seemed content with that, and turned his attention back to check out the new office. 

The former flat of 221C Baker Street, which had been thoroughly renovated, was halfway underground, and only the feet were visible of the people walking by outside. It consisted of the larger part of the former living room, that had been partitioned to three smaller rooms. An office, an examination room, and a room for minor surgery. 

The former bedroom and kitchen where rebuilt to fit Sherlock's experiments, leaving the upstairs kitchen (where they actually lived) free from hazardous chemicals and human body parts. 

The renovation had cost all of the money Sherlock had won off the illegal casino in Russia, and some of their old savings, but it was worth it. John had a place where he could practice medicine, and still be able to go with Sherlock on a moment's notice.  
Sherlock had a place were he could conduct his experiments undisturbed, but still had close access to John if he needed assistance. 

John was about to sit down behind the desk to get a feel for the place when the doorbell chimed. Gladstone barked and John sighed. 

Mrs Hudson was out so he had to go answer the door. 

It was James Bond, Gladstone grunted happily at the man's calves. 

"Hello John," smiled James. "How are things?"

"Just fine," said John moving to the side to let James in. "What brings you here?"

"I'm looking for Q actually," he gave half a smile and a shrug. "I got back from Hong Kong last night and he wasn't home. I thought he was working late, but he hasn't been at the HQ since yesterday."

"He isn't here," John frowned. "We haven't seen him for a couple of days. Doesn't he answer his phone?"

"No phone, no messages, no mail, no radio," he shifted. "If it wasn't Q, I would be a little worried."

John turned as he heard Sherlock coming down the stairs. The detective was wearing his long blue coat and had John's jacket over his arm.

"Lestrade called," he said. "There's a new victim... Hello James."

"Sherlock."

"James is looking for Freddie," said John pulling on his jacket. "Do you know where he could be?"

"I spoke to him on the phone yesterday..." Sherlock was ushering both John and James outside "He didn't say anything noticeable then. He was looking forward to your return though."

"Can you give me Mycroft's address?" James sighed. 

"Can you give us a ride to the crime scene?" countered Sherlock. 

"My car doesn't really have a backseat..."

"I can sit in John's lap," Sherlock waived his hand dismissingly. "Come on! Stop wasting time."


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my beta memprime

John watched Sherlock watching the body of the dead woman. There was a hint of sadness there that hadn't been there a moment ago. It then disappeared quickly as if it never had been there. Sherlock kneeled down on one knee to take a closer look. John followed.

The woman had been strangled with a cotton rope that was still around her neck. She was in her mid-thirties, brunette, and wearing what looked like a blue silk nightdress. 

They were in the living room of her house. It was about eight in the evening. 

"She's been dead for nearly twenty-four hours," said John. 

"Almost exactly, actually," said Sherlock leaning in to smell her mouth.

John had long since stopped trying to stop Sherlock from smelling corpses, since Sherlock had reconciled only to do it when nobody else was watching. 

"Boys," greeted Greg solemnly, coming into the room with a young uniformed policewoman at his back. 

The woman stepped forward and looked at the victim with narrowed eyes. Sherlock glanced her over but clearly saw nothing of interest, and turned back to his examination of the body. 

"It's her," said the constable with a nod. "That's the minister's mistress." 

"It's confirmed," said Greg into his phone and hung up. 

John guessed that he had been speaking to Mycroft. 

"I could have told you that," said Sherlock. 

"I need more than deductions at this point," sighed Greg. "This is the third politician's mistress killed in a two weeks. The media are going to be like bloodhounds on this. The other two victims are already big headlines."

"She was pregnant," Sherlock stood up. "Eighteen to twenty weeks."

"Shit," murmured Greg. 

Sherlock looked at the policewoman again.

"You worked security for the minister, and you saw him bring this woman to his hotel room." It wasn't a question. "Who did you tell?"

"My partner, and my superior. No one else." 

She straightened a bit. Sherlock nodded, he was ready to leave. John stood up and walked over to the door. 

"Come, John," said Sherlock, and looked a bit confused as he noticed that John was ahead of him. 

John grinned as he let the taller man passed the door. 

"Seven-thirty, my office!" called Greg after them. "Written reports, please!"

They stepped out into the early night. The victim's home was on a nice and quiet suburban street. John took a breath of the cool air. 

A flash of a camera startled him. The press was already there. Sherlock's face would probably be on the front page tomorrow. John scowled 'no comment' to the reporter and dragged Sherlock away. 

They started walking towards the larger roads where they could get a cab.

"Serial killer?" he asked after a while.

"Seems so." 

John could see how happy he was. It had been a long wait, but the police had finally regained enough trust to ask for Sherlock's help on murders again. Or, as Sherlock explained it to him, they wanted someone to throw to the ravenous press, if this high-profile case went bollocks up.

"Were you sad because she was pregnant?" asked John sneaking his hand into Sherlock's. 

"It tells us about the killer," Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly. "The victim knew she was pregnant. There were pre-natal vitamins in the kitchen, and a baby-magazine on her nightstand. The killer must have known. Possibly, she pleaded for the child."

John felt a bit nauseous. Though at the same time he felt a little proud that Sherlock actually, in a way, was able to relate to other people emotionally. John credited himself for that. 

They got hold of a cab about five minutes later, and settled comfortably into the backseat. Sherlock was thinking, so John busied himself by looking out the window. 

Sherlock's phone gave a light fanfare, he didn't move so John took it out of his pocket. The display showed that it was Freddie calling, but when John answered it was James' voice. The agent sounded incredibly pissed off and ready to use his licence to kill. 

"Q is kidnapped."


	4. Three

Twenty minutes later they were in Freddie's office at the underground headquarters of the MI6. It would be impressive if it wasn't for the situation. 

Mallory, the director of MI6, and Mycroft were talking quietly together. John had met Mallory before at James' forty-fifth birthday party, he was one of the good guys in John's opinion. 

He also dated Anthea, which made him impressive in a whole other level. She was also in the room, standing passively to the side of the room with a mobile in one hand and a handheld computer in the other. 

James was almost frantic with anger and had to have all his weapons removed, not that it would stop the trained assassin if he decided to take matters in own hands.

"Fuck!" he growled repeatedly as he paced the room. 

"Sit down and shut up!" Sherlock boomed at James. "I'm thinking!"

Amazingly enough, James did what he was told. John, who already was sitting quietly, smirked. 

Sherlock was staring at a computer screen where a password was to be typed, he had only one chance left before the system closed down. His hands twitched over the keyboard. 

"No..." he murmured. "Not... Never... How could he?"

"Don't write something you don't believe it is," said Mallory.

"It's because I don't believe it," said Sherlock and typed.

The computers came online with a welcome humming notice. 

"Captain Kitty Furry Nose." 

"What?" John frowned. 

"Freddie loved cats as a child, but he is allergic," explained Sherlock with the hint of a fond smile. "It was this name for a the toy-cat Mummy gave him as compensation."

"God, I love him," James rubbed his face.

"Sherlock," Mallory stepped forward. "We need you here. You can think like Q, this is his system. His team will help you."

"Don't you have a vice-Q, or something?" asked John.

"We do," Mallory sighed. "But since Q is so young it didn't seem like a priority to train a successor just yet. Besides, she will be needed for the more classified missions we can't give Sherlock access to."

John could see his point; he wouldn't want to put too many national secrets in Sherlock's hands either. 

"And," Mallory glanced at James. "There aren't many handlers that can handle him. There is no way, besides prison and maybe not even that, I can stop Bond from going after Q. I'd rather have someone I trust holding the lead."

John nodded. 

"There is one problem though," he said. "Sherlock is on a very high profile case right now. A serial killer that's after politician's mistresses. The press already seen him at the last crime scene. He can't be seen to back away, it would destroy his reputation."

"Like I care!" Sherlock got up from his chair,. "My little brother is missing!"

"You will care when you are never trusted with another big case again," said John patiently. "Or when an over-ambitious reporter follows you here and exposes MI6's missing quartermaster to the world."

"Good thinking, Doctor Watson," nodded Mycroft. "Damage control."

"Martin," said James.

"What?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

James started pacing again, it was clear that he soon couldn't be contained any longer. 

"I need Sherlock to help me find Q, Sherlock needs someone to stand in for him in front of the media. Your cousin Martin, he was mistaken for Sherlock on Jamaica."

There was a moment's pause as the others thought it over. Sherlock and Mycroft turned to look at John. He knew why. If the idea was to work, John needed to be Martin's keeper and guide. 

It was going to be hard work but Sherlock's reputation, and maybe even Freddie's life could depend on it. 

"I'll get him," said John. "Concentrate your all on Freddie. Leave Martin to me."

His statement was like a catalyst. Mallory and Mycroft immediately began talking on their phones, Anthea began typing, James ran out of the room at high speed, and Sherlock started examining the computer. 

John took a steadying breath as he realised that he now had taken on the serial killer case as well. 

"You'll do fine," said Sherlock without looking away from the screen. "I trust you completely."

"Thank you," John felt a little bit better. 

"I'll send you my notes as soon as I can." He gave John a quick smile. 

John smiled back. He walked over and kissed Sherlock's temple. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. 

"There is a car outside the door where you entered. The driver's name is Tom, he will be your security until this is over."

"Do we need security?" John's hand on Sherlock tightened.

"You need a driver."

"Yeah," John was a bit hesitant but decided not to waste more time. 

He did make a mental note, though not for the first nor for the last time, to upgrade his military licence to a civilian. John gave Sherlock a quick kiss and left. He wasn't sure Sherlock even noticed.

Sherlock was going to notice soon enough that John took Sherlock's beloved coat and scarf with him as he left.


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my patient beta memprime  
> (any still exiting faults are mine)

Of all the places John imagined himself being that night it was not at an all-night pharmacy in Fitton looking through hair dye. 

Dark Brown, sounded a bit dull. John looked again. Chocolate Brown, sounded good. Rich Brown, now we were talking. John compared the synthetic hair samples to his memory of Sherlock's locks. 

Feeling himself getting slightly aroused he looked at the Dark Brown again. Could he mix all three colours together, he wondered. 

He yawned. He had slept in the car, but that was not nearly enough. 

Martin was landing at the airfield in about an half an hour. Within two hours they must be on their way back to London if they were going to make it to Lestrade's morning meeting. 

He had received three full texts with Sherlock's conclusions about the latest murder. He had forwarded them to Lestrade's email without reading them. 

John looked at the multitude of boxes before him and wondered what the hell he was doing. Not only would they need to fool the press, they would need to fool every one of the readers and viewers, and not to mention the police!

John felt doom creeping in slowly. He had already decided to let Lestrade in on the secret. 

He bought both the Rich Brown and the Dark Brown. The old man at the till gave him a strange look but said nothing. 

At the airfield, John settled down to read Sherlock's texts. Sherlock figured that the murderer either was having it in for mistresses, didn't like cheating politicians, or was hired by the politicians' wives swapping contacts between them. He held the second theory most likely, and John agreed. 

When they saw the plane land John sent Tom to get Martin. He would have liked to go himself but thought it best to contain an air of secrecy, and wanted to let as few people as possible in on the secret. 

John felt a bit like Mycroft when Martin arrived in the car looking very confused. Not a good look on Sherlock's face but slightly cute on Martin's. 

"John?"

"Hello," smiled John. "I'm sorry for this, but we really need your help."

"Couldn't you have called?" 

Martin adjusted his captain-jacket, trying to regain composure. He looked a bit panicked when the car started to move. 

"Where are we going?"

"First to your place, then to the New Scotland Yard in London," said John, feeling almost as if he was back in secret-ops. 

"Scotland Yard...?"

"Martin," John leaned forward and put on his most serious face. "Freddie has been kidnapped. Sherlock is helping the police, but the kidnappers can't know that. So you need to stand in for him."

Martin blinked and swallowed, four times. 

"O-of course I'll do anything to help..." he stammered. "Bu-but impersonating Sherlock? We might look alike, but he is taller than me, and his hair..."

"We will pad your shoes, and dye your hair," smiled John, gesturing to the plastic bag beside him. "Don't worry."

"I just have to open my mouth and people will know," Martin shook his head. 

"Just look very brooding, and I'll do the talking."

They arrived to what looked like a student housing. John looked at Martin who seemed apologetic. 

"I live in the attic," he said. 

John told Tom to wait, and followed Martin upstairs. He brought the bag and the bundle of Sherlock's clothes with him. Since it was in the middle of the night they moved as quiet as they could. 

The small room was abysmal and boring. John had lived better when he was a med-student without a scholarship. 

"Arthur and I are saving up to find a place together, but it's going to take a while. And... and his mother doesn't know about us yet."

"Don't worry," John smiled. "This is cosy. Mind you, I lived in a tent in the desert for almost three years."

Martin gave him a thankful smile back.

"Why would anyone want to kidnap Freddie?" he asked, lovingly hanging up his uniform. "He is only a desk clerk at the government's IT-department."

"I don't know," John said as he sat down by the only table. It was very small and rickety. "Sherlock is trying to find that out."

"Maybe he got a promotion," mused Martin. 

"Maybe." 

John opened one of the dye-packages and tried to figure out the instructions. There were a couple baggy plastic gloves included.

"Have you done this before?" asked Martin nervously. 

"My sister made me make her hair blue once," said John. "But this looks a bit more complicated.”


	6. Five

They slept in the car on the way back to London. Martin had called his employer to let her know that he had a family emergency. Then he had called Arthur to tell him not to worry. 

Martin's hair was still wet when they set off, so the colour was still a bit of a mystery. He was wearing one of Sherlock's white shirts and black trousers. The scarf was around his neck and the coat was over his arm.

They were about the same body-size, but as Martin had pointed out, Sherlock was taller. It probably differentiated about eight centimetres between them. The soles gave him an extra three centimetres. 

When John awoke he looked over at Martin, who now had dry hair, and felt a mushy feeling in his gut. Then Martin gave him a very nervous look and the feeling went away. John would never be fooled by Martin.

"Okay," John sighed. "Broody. Walk fast and purposely. Forth floor, head for the third office to the left, 'Lestrade' on the door. Ignore everyone, even if they yell at you. Put the coat on."

"But it's warm outside."

"Doesn't matter," said John.

"Should have known he'd never change," muttered Martin pulling on the coat. "He had a green parka as a child, never took it off."

As they exited the car John saw the potential of maybe finding things out about Sherlock's childhood. 

Martin stumbled out of the car. A camera flashed, the press was already there. John swore inwardly and hurried to help Martin, but was pushed away.

"I can manage," said the booming voice.

John stopped cold. Martin adjusted the coat, gave the oncoming reporters a look of death, and proceeded inside the building. John followed as best as he could. 

The desk-sergeant let them pass without fuss. Martin headed towards the lifts. His expression was a thunderstorm of grumpiness that John only had seen once on Sherlock, and that was when Mrs. Hudson had forbidden him to bring half a cow into the flat.

They shared the lift with two homicide detectives whose names John dident remember. Martin looked at them as he was accusing them of eating all his favourite desserts. 

When the lift reached the fourth floor he strode out of the lift, and quickly walked towards Lestrade's office. 

"Cut our hair, Freak?" Donovan's voice cut through the room. "Trying to look good for the cameras?"

Martin turned to her, clearly hurt with injustice for his cousin. John was afraid that their cover was blown. Any minute now, they would have the wrath and ridicule of Scotland Yard upon them. 

"I never try to do what comes naturally," sneered Martin. "What's your excuse for that shirt?"

He then entered Lestrade's office, held the door open for John, closed it, and then sank to the floor in a curled up in a foetal position. 

John gave Lestrade, who was sitting at his table, a hesitant smile. 

"Spoken to Mycroft yet?" he asked.

"Yeah..." Lestrade leaned over to observe the man on the floor. "Is he all right?"

"I'm fine," breathed Martin. "If I can land a jet with one engine on fire in a Russian crosswind blizzard, I can bloody do this." 

"Take a moment," John leaned down and patted his shoulder. 

"This is very inconvenient," sighed Greg. "The press already knows Sherlock is back on our consulting staff. They will have his blood if something happens on this case. You need to keep an eye on him at all time, and don't let him touch anything."

"I can hear you, you know," said Martin.

John sat down on one of the visitor chairs.

"That said," Greg ruffled his hair. "I hope Freddie is unharmed and will be back soon."

"They are doing their best... Martin, get up from the floor before somebody sees you."

Martin grunted and got to his feet. He sat down next to John. 

"You really do look alike," said Greg. "It's a bit creepy."

"We both look like our grandfather,"  said Martin with a sigh of someone who had to explain something a hundred times or more. "The genetic lottery paid out twice."

"Poetic," nodded Greg. "Well, let's get down to business then. There is a briefing in the seminar room and then a press conference. Then we'll go and talk to the minister and his wife."

"Why aren't you talking to them first thing?" asked John.

"They were attending some kind of meeting in Paris," Greg was organising his papers. "So..." he looked up at them. "You know what to do?"

"Brood," said Martin. 

"Take notes and pictures for Sherlock," said John.

"Good."

 

tbc


	7. Six

The briefing went well. John recorded it on a borrowed dictaphone, and took some notes and pictures of things Sherlock would be interested in. 

Martin stared intensely at a picture of a dead body for five seconds, then sat down closed his eyes and began brooding. Only John was close enough to see the slight tinge of green on the man's face.

When the briefing was over some of the officers turned to look at Martin, expecting 'Sherlock' to say something clever or rude. John nudged Martin who startled a little. 

"Good," Martin took a breath. "Good. But not as good as it could be of you had contacted me from the start."

"Right. Thanks," Greg looked at his watch. "Time to talk to the press."

"Do I have to?" asked Martin. 

"Yes, _Sherlock_ you do," said Greg. 

"You need to show off your new hairdo," smirked Donovan. 

"You changed your shirt," noted Martin. 

Sally looked embarrassed and furious at the same time. Martin quickly left the room, John on his heels.

"You are doing good," said John. "You are handling Sally like a pro."

"You learn to recognise personalities when you spend a great deal of your time in airports. And also Arthur took a people-reading course once and told me all about it." He paused. "Any news about Freddie?"

"No," John had kept glancing to his phone but nothing had come up. "No news is good news, I hope."

Martin nodded. 

They were shown in to the press-room. It was full of reporters, several flashing cameras, and two TV-crews. 

Greg sat down at the desk in front, directing Donovan to his right. Martin and John stood to the side, though the reporters attention were on them within moments.

"Good morning," Greg cleared his throat. "Thank you for coming..."

"Mr. Holmes!" called one of the reporters. "Did you orchestrate these crimes as well?"

He was young, young enough to not have been around the last time. A worried ripple went through the other members the press. They knew what had happened to Kitty Reilly, the reporter who had tarnished Sherlock back then. She, and her paper, had been sued for defamation. 

Sherlock had a very modern laboratory equipment thanks to them. 

"Mr. Holmes has been cleared of all charges," Greg gave the reporter an icy glare he must have learned from Mycroft. "We are here to talk about three dead women..."

John's clenched and unclenched his fists. He knew both Sherlock and Mycroft were watching this on TV, and he knew that the reporter was about to regret his words. Martin was listening to Greg with a serious face. 

The three cheating politicians names were withheld, but the reporters had some good guesses that was neither denied or confirmed. 

"Mr. Holmes," more seasoned reporter raised her hand. "Do you have any comment?"

"Only my sympathies for their families," said Martin.

John smiled, this was going well. He just wished he could get the real Sherlock to say something like that. 

Greg pronounced the session to an end and left the small stage towards the door. Several reporters called out questions, some about the case, and some for a better comment from Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson!" a woman shoved a large microphone under John's nose. "Is it true that you and Mr. Holmes are an item?"

"No comment," said John and hurried after Martin and Greg.

To his own surprise he would have liked to answer with a 'yes', but he knew he had to talk it over with Sherlock first. 

His phone chimed. 

_Tell Martin not to look so in awe of Lestrade. It makes my stomach curl. SH_

John grinned. 

_Greg is an awesome man. He defended your honour._

They finally reached the front doors. Greg was talking with the officer in duty. Martin was looking over the brochures on display on the wall, he seemed particularly interested in one about vacation security. John got another message. 

_I'm sure my honour was grateful to be defended. I still looked like a idiot. SH. ps Freddie still missing. Have to call Jennie and mummy soon._

John frowned. It had been hours, if neither Sherlock or James could find Freddie there had to be something very bad going on. 

Donovan opted for a ride in a marked police car since she didn't want to share with 'Sherlock'. 

"Ready?" asked Greg. 

"Yeah," John sighed. "Just got word from Sherlock, Freddie is still missing."

"I wonder how could they get to him in the first place," Greg said, shaking his head. "The security on him must be massive."

Greg held open the door to the backseat of his car. Martin got in without protest, very unlike Sherlock who would have insisted on sitting in front, maybe even driving. At least he didn't say 'thank you'.

John got in next to him, and Greg sat down behind the wheel. The passenger seat was empty.

"What else did Sherlock say?" 

"He thought Martin was adoring you."

"What?" Martin spluttered. 

"Sherlock mostly listens to people by pretending not to listen to them," said John.

"I don't know," said Greg steering out on to the street. "It's nice to be adored sometimes."

"I wasn't adoring!" protested Martin. "I was listening very attentively to the briefing. As an airline captain I know the importance of briefings. I hardly know anything about the case and I'm supposed to play the genius who solves it!" 

"Good point," said Greg. "Though we must do team work on this one."

They rode in silence for about ten minutes into a more expensive part of London. John was reading through his old messages from Sherlock on his phone; he didn't have a soppy smile on his face. 

"Yellow car," said Martin.

"What?" Greg looked around. 

John noted a yellow car parked further down the street.

"Sorry," Martin blushed. "It's just a game Arthur and I play."

"Oh, okay," Greg stopped by the curb in front of a large townhouse. "This is the minister's house. Martin, is it possible for you to distract the wife? I need to ask the minister sensitive questions."

"Distract? I- I- don't know if can do that. I'm that not good talking to women..."

"Isn't your boss a woman?" asked John. "And you spoke to Donovan..."

"Yes, but Carolyn is my friend, and Donovan was rude about Sherlock."

"Try your best anyway," said Greg getting out of the car. "I would prefer not to have the wife close when I ask questions about her husband's mistress."

"You'll do fine," John gave Martin an encouraging smile, though he didn't feel all that comfortable.


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where this is going :D  
> Who kidnapped Q?  
> I should know that, shouldn't I? Hopefully it will come to me, but have some Martin being cute in the meantime.

John hadn't needed to worry, Martin managed to summon his inner Sherlock beautifully. Mostly because as soon as they entered the minister's living room he caught sight of an old photograph with man in front of a plane. 

"My father, he was a pilot with the RAF in the war," the minister's wife, a pretty woman in her late forties, explained.

Martin took it from there as he enthusiastically began explaining the specs of the plane to the poor woman. 

Greg's interview with the minister was quite undisturbed. John could even snoop around a little extra when he excused himself for the bathroom. He took a few pictures for Sherlock's benefit. 

"Now...," said Martin, "the so called 'Seafire' was a whole different thing. This here is the 'Spiteful' version of the Supermarine Spitfire..."

"You don't say..." 

She was a true politician's wife, John noted, probably used to hearing boring speeches for hours and still look interested. 

"Of course it wasn't spiteful at all..." Martin prattled on.

"Sherlock?" Greg approached him. "Could I talk to the lady for a moment?"

"Oh! Sure! Absolutely! Sorry!" 

"Believe me, Mr. Holmes," said the wife with a suffering smile. "I would rather listen to you talk all day than having this conversation."

"What a lovely woman," said Martin to John when they were left alone. "I can't see how anyone would like to cheat on her."

He took up the photograph and looked closer at it. John noted that the look on Martin's face could be compared to when Sherlock got permission to assist in one of Molly's autopsies. 

John missed Sherlock. Though he couldn't think to imagine, or dare to remember, he kind of knew what James was going through. This was the longest time since Sherlock's return that they had been apart. 

Greg gave them a sign that they were leaving. 

Back in the car they compared notes as Greg steered towards Baker Street. 

"The wife said she didn't know about the affair," said Greg. "She was very calm about it, but I believe her. The minister last met with the victim two days before her death, just before leaving to Paris."

"They are not sleeping in the same room," said John. "Her cases were in the guest room. And it looked like she have been sleeping there even before their trip."

"They admitted to having some trouble in their marriage since their son moved out, though the minister had been seeing the victim prior to that." 

"Are you going to talk to the son?"

"It's on my list, but he's studying in Oxford. Got to get in contact with the locals there." Greg sighed. "Got message from Mycroft though. He says there's still no news about Freddie, but asks if you can come by and feed Sherlock."

"Sounds like I'm some bloody nursemaid," chuckled John fondly. "Better bring him a change of clothes as well."

"I'm going back to the Yard to compare notes with the other two victims, and wait for the coroner's report." 

Greg dropped them off by Baker Street. Tom was standing outside Speedy's having a large paper cup of coffee. He and John nodded to each other. 

"All right?" asked Tom. 

"I need a ride back," said John. 

"I'll get the car."

John felt a hand in his and he turned to look at Martin. It felt so different from holding hands with Sherlock. Martin's hands were slightly smaller.

"Keeping up appearances," shrugged Martin. "Some of your neighbours were looking."

John was to say that Sherlock seldom took the first step when it came to contact, but he decided not to care because it was a sweet gesture. He squeezed Martin's hand back as they entered 221b.

Gladstone was on the top of the stairs yapping. John laughed and hurried up to greet the dog, lifting the animal into his arms, and receiving wet doggie-kisses.

There were voices coming from inside the flat, but since one of them was Mrs. Hudson and she was laughing, John turned to Martin instead. 

"This is Gladstone," he introduced holding the dog forward. "He's nine months old and a English Bulldog."

"H-hello Gladstone," Martin held out a hand and let the dog smell his fingers. 

Gladstone looked confused, looked to John, and whined a little. John thought he was adorable. 

"It's probably because you are wearing Sherlock's clothes," explained John with a smile. "Does the stranger smell like daddy, baby?" 

They entered the flat. Mrs. Hudson was on the sofa, serving tea to Arthur.

"Skip!" Arthur called, jumping up from his seat and into Martin's arms with a great hug. "What have you done to your hair?"

"Arthur," breathed Martin, arms around his boyfriend. "What are you doing here?"

"We saw you on TV," said Arthur. "It was brilliant! Both Mum and Douglas said it was Sherlock, but I knew it was you, so I came here to see you."

John licked his lips and put Gladstone down on the floor. It seemed like he wasn't the only one that could separate Sherlock and Martin. Gladstone smelled Martin's leg, still clearly confused.

"It's really uncanny," said Mrs. Hudson. "If I didn't know Sherlock so well I would never have noticed."

"It's important no one finds out though," said John. "Sherlock is working on a really big secret case. So Arthur, you better call your Mum and tell her you made a mistake, and that it was Sherlock on the telly."

"But I didn't make a mistake."

"No, but no one can know that we changed them."

"Changed who?"

"Sherlock and Martin."

"Wow! So is Sherlock flying planes?"

"No..." John took a breath.

"I'll take care of this," sighed Martin taking Arthur by the arm and directing him towards the kitchen. "We'll make that phone-call as well."

"Cheers, mate," John shook his head. 

"Lovely boy, that Arthur" said Mrs. Hudson as she tidied the table. "Makes a bit of a change from talking to Sherlock."

John gave her a tired smile. He took out his phone and texted Sherlock, asking if there was anything special he needed from home. 

He passed Martin and Arthur on his way to Sherlock's room. Arthur was sitting on a chair, breathing hard, with a phone in his right hand, and Martin's hands tightly around his left. John raised an eyebrow. 

"He gets very nervous when he needs to lie," explained Martin. 

"I see...," said John. 

His phone chimed as he packed a fresh pair of pants and a shirt for Sherlock in a small bag.  
 __  
Just the baby. SH  
  
John smirked and looked down on Gladstone by his feet.

"Do you want to visit daddy at work?"


	9. Eight

Sherlock was staring through a computer screen when John arrived. Obviously he was very frustrated, and John knew that the MI-6 interior would soon suffer bitter ends if something wasn't done about it.

He placed Gladstone, who had gotten his own visitor-badge clipped to his collar, on Sherlock's lap. The dog seemed happy to find his true master and started panting hard. Sherlock blinked to life and stared down at the wrinkly face. 

"Hello there," said Sherlock, rubbing the dogs ears.

John placed the bag of take-out on the desk. He had gotten food from a new health place that made you compose your own salads. Sherlock frowned at the bag.

"What's that?" 

"You can't have Chinese all the time, love."

"Have you been watching those populistic diet shows on television again?"

"Not necessarily," John cleared his throat. "It's good for you. Listen to your doctor."

Sherlock gave him an amused glare. 

"How's it going?" John changed the subject.

He placed a file with his notes and printouts on the 'mistress-case' on the deal. 

"I've been going through Freddie's work all day," Sherlock said, turning the first page of the file. "Well, at least the parts they let me go through. And James has probably rummaged through half of London by now."

"How did they get to Freddie in the first place?"

"He went out to the newsagents around the corner from his house to buy a magazine, but he never arrived. The owner knows him and would have remembered."

"No footage from CCTV?" 

"A timed blind spot," Sherlock reached for his salad. "They knew what they were doing... Chicken and red peppers?"

"Just eat it," John sat down with his own food, ham and cheese. "So what is your theory?" 

"They must have had a vehicle, but there's nothing sticking out on the street." Sherlock fed a piece of chicken to Gladstone. "The thing is... and I'm not sure about this so don't go spreading it around, I'm just thinking out loud to you to bounce the idea... The thing is that I don't think the kidnappers know who they are dealing with."

"You mean they don't know Freddie is the quartermaster?"

"It's possible..." Sherlock chewed his food slowly. "If they knew who Freddie was wouldn't there have been some sort of a cyber-attack somewhere by now?"

"Maybe they took him for his engineering skills?" John suggested. "Perhaps they want him to build a bomb or something?"

"I've already thought about that."

"Of course you have."

"Freddie is at his best with computers and small electronics. If they want a bomb they can do much better than him."

"Maybe they don't know that."

Sherlock was about to answer when he was interrupted by a buzzing noise from the computer. He immediately put Gladstone on the floor, together with the chicken salad, and scooted closer to the screen. 

"Face-recognition..." he murmured, typing a few commands. "Good boy, Freddie!"

John stepped over Gladstone eating chicken, and looked over Sherlock's shoulder. 

It was a black-and-white surveillance camera, placed in what seem to be an industrial area. Three men in hoodies were walking by. The one in the middle shifted slightly under the hood. A green square appeared on the screen, closing in on the man, and revealing part of Freddie's face. John took a breath.

"I'm sending the footage to James," said Sherlock. "Damn! There doesn't seem to be any other cameras online in the area. And the satellite is out of range."

Ten minutes later Sherlock gave up with a sigh. John was leaning against the wall behind him. 

"They must be inside a building," Sherlock said, hitting his fist on the table. "Damn it! I should be out there!"

"At least he seemed all right," said John placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock placed his own hand on top of John's and squeezed it. 

They stared at the screen for a moment. A man in a suit walked into the frame, the computer beeped and the green square appeared again. James Bond looked straight into the camera, nodded, and moved off screen. 

A small red flashing light came on the screen. Sherlock clicked it with his free hand. 

"James?" he asked.

"Several warehouses," came James's voice. "All seem to be in use, but the security's a bit lax. Going to look around. Stay with me."

"I have no visual," said Sherlock. "Satellite in range in four minutes."

"Understood."

They could hear James moving and breathing on the other end of the line. John held on to Sherlock's shoulder. 

They both flinched as John's phone suddenly rang. The display said it was Lestrade.

"Hello? Greg?"

"John? There has been another mistress attacked. She survived, just barely. They've taken her to St. Bart's."

"Is she conscious?"

"In and out. She's been heavily drugged. Donovan is babysitting her..."

Sherlock suddenly huffed irritably. 

"Damn space junk! Move!"

"Is that Sherlock or Martin?"

"Sherlock. He is yelling at a satellite."

"Of course he is. Listen, mate, this case got a little more complicated. This time it was a married female politician having the mistress."

"Oh."

"Yeah," sighed Greg. "And she is quite high up in the power-chain. Can you and Martin create a distraction at the Parliament? I have some reporters on me, and I don't want to mess this investigation up with more of a scandal it already is."

"A distraction? All right. We'll see what we can do."

"Thanks. I'll keep you posted." said Greg and hung up. 

"I don't do 'distractions'," muttered Sherlock.

"Fortunately for you, Martin does," said John putting his phone back in his pocket. "I hate to leave you like this."

"Go, and say hello to Arthur for me."

"How did you know Arthur is there?"

"You'll be amazed what I can do with these computers," smirked Sherlock. "And I found the feed from a hidden camera in our living room. There are some lovely pictures of you walking around naked."

"Are you saying there are naked pictures of you on Q's computer?" asked James from the comm. "Bloody hell, I need to spend more time at the office. "

"Sherlock is deleting them now!" huffed John. "And by the way, you got your satellite now."

"Finally," growled Sherlock.


	10. Chapter 10

John was picked up by Tom outside the nondescript government building. Martin was already in the car. He was wearing Sherlock's coat, and the deerstalker.

"Sherlock hates that hat," said John. 

"Shall I take it off?" Martin was nervously drumming his thigh with a rolled up aviation-magazine. "I felt better wearing a hat though."

"It's fine," John knew how fond Martin was of his own captain's hat, anything to make the man relax. "Where's Arthur?"

"Back at the flat, looking after the dog," Martin adjusted the deerstalker. "We are safer with him there. He can't lie, and would probably fall over his own feet if he had to call me 'Sherlock' in public."

"He can't lie?"

"Not even half-truths," Martin smiled fondly, a smile Sherlock only used for Gladstone. "How goes the search for Freddie?"

"There was a good lead just before I left, but I don't know how it worked out. Sherlock and James are on it."

"So," Martin shifted. "This distraction..." 

"We'll go to the House of Parliament, fake some snooping around, get seen by the reporters, and let Lestrade slip out the back."

"Sounds so simple."

"You did very well at the minister's house before."

"That was because I could talk about planes," Martin rubbed his face. "I can't really do that now."

"Just smile like you despise them, say 'no comments on the case', and if anyone asks you anything personal ignore it and leave it to me."

They reached the Westminster bridge and the car stopped by the side of the street. John and Martin got out at stated to walk towards the main gates of the Parliament building. 

There was a horde of tourists milling about, but also some curious Londoners, several policemen, a few reporters, and two television crews. 

Someone, John couldn't tell who, gave up a excited call when they set eyes on Martin in the deerstalker. It was enough for them to get surrounded by reporters, and fans.

"Mr. Holmes," said a young man in a half-decent suit, pressing a voice-recorder under Martin's nose. "Are you here because of the 'Mistress-murders'? We have had reports of a new attack. Was she a mistress? Is it true that she is still alive?"

"No comment," said Martin, not even looking at the reporter.

"Do you think the murderer's father had a mistress?" a woman with a large BBC-microphone asked. 

"Are politicians more likely to cheat on their spouses?" asked another. 

"Has the murderer been cheated on?" asked the young man again. 

"No comment," said Martin, his hand clutching the magazine in his hand.

"Dr. Watson," a woman held a smartphone close to John's face. "What would you do if Mr. Holmes cheated on you?"

John stared at the woman. It was such an unexpected question that his brain shut down for a moment.

"That would never happen," said Martin firmly, taking John's hand in his. 

There was a gasp through the small crowd. 

"So you are in a relationship then?" the woman breathed excitedly. 

"I... I..." Martin looked at John.

John cursed himself. Because of all the rush, worry and excitement he had forgotten to tell Martin one important thing. He and Sherlock were together, but they never flaunted it in public. It was easier to just let people assume whatever they wanted to assume.

"Oh, oh, oh," Martin looked desperately around, breaking his role even more. "Oh look John! A clue!" 

Martin pointed. A few people turned to look. It was enough of a distraction for Martin to pull John with him in a run for the entry to Parliament. 

Thankfully the guards didn't stop them, but they did stop the reporters. 

Martin leaned on the wall, his knees looked unsteady. John had trouble standing still, and swayed slightly. 

"A lovely distraction, gentlemen," said Mycroft, who was standing in the hallway smirking at them. 

"Shut up," breathed Martin. "Oh god did I just out Sherlock to the press?"

"Are these the 'pilot nerves of steel' I have heard so much about?"

"Lay off him, Mycroft," sighed John. "I'm sure we couldn't have kept it unconfirmed for much longer anyway. It's okay, Martin."

John's phone buzzed with Sherlock's message signal, a D-sharp violin tone. He ignored it. 

"Did Greg get out with the woman okay?" he asked.

"No problem," Mycroft was still looking at Martin, but then glanced to his own phone as it vibrated in his hand. "Computer security breach. This could be the attack of Freddie's kidnappers that we've been waiting for."

Mycroft left without another word. John held out a hand to steady Martin. 

"Let's go to the Yard and get Sherlock's notes, yeah?"

"Yeah," breathed Martin, pulling himself together. "Did I ruin it?"

"No," John laughed. "To be honest, I think Sherlock would have turned that reporter to a crying wreck just for implying that he would cheat on me. This was a bit embarrassing, but not as bad as it could have been,"

John called Tom and arranged for him to pick them up at a back door. He could get used to having a private chauffeur; he wondered how much it would cost in comparison to all the taxi bills. 

They rode to Scotland Yard in silence. Martin was reading his very wrinkly magazine, and John was looking at his phone. 

Sherlock had left him one message: I love you. SH.

John wasn't certain if the message was a response to Martin's announcement, or if Sherlock was going to do something stupid. It made him nervous. 

Don't do anything stupid, he wrote. Love you too.

Sherlock didn't respond.


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally figured out how this is going to end :) I think there is about six chapters left.

John and Martin waited in Greg's office while the DI interviewed the lady whose mistress had been attacked. 

The lady really was a lady, John had found out from Donovan, daughter of baroness something-or-other, and very influential in the House of Lords. The news that she had a female lover wouldn't have been that bad if she hadn't been married into a low branch of the royal family tree. 

"Messy," said John when he and Martin were alone. "If this gets out? We must be even more careful. If they find out that you are not Sherlock, there will be hell to pay."

Martin gave a stiff nod and adjusted the deerstalker. He looked quite composed for a few moments before his phone rang, then he gave a small shriek. John rolled his eyes. 

"Sorry," breathed Martin. 

The call was from Martin's employer and Arthur's mother, Carolyn. She didn't sound happy so John excused himself to get them coffee. Martin gave him a thankful nod. 

On his way to the pantry he bumped into his sister. Harry was wearing her usual getup of female-altered men's wear and red lipstick. She looked more like a gender-bent gangster than a magistrate. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked after letting her peck his cheek. 

"Paperwork," said Harry in a dismissing tone. 

Three Yarders with piles of paper boxes stood beside her shifting awkwardly. They were probably in the middle of some large investigation and needed her approval to move forward. 

"I was going to call you actually. Let's have dinner."

"We're in the middle of a case."

"Let's have dinner after that then," she rolled her eyes. "Is it that mistress-killer? Men are bastards."

"Why?" John was used to being put in the bastard-category by Harry. 

"The killer goes after the mistress, like it's her fault. It the cheating bastards’ fault for not being able to keep their cocks in their pants!"

"Of course," said John not mentioning that the latest victim had been a lesbian. 

Harry's phone rang. She didn't even bother to apologise before answering. Her eyes grew as she listened. The Yarders looked nervous. John was considering going on with his quest for coffee. 

"Evelyn has been attacked," said Harry, closing her phone. "She's at the hospital. It's critical." 

"Evelyn?" 

"I introduced her to you at my last party."

"Oh."

John remembered that party. It had been him, Sherlock, twelve lesbians and four drag-queens. Sherlock had been disturbingly impressed by the drag-queens, and had asked them thoroughly how they applied their make-up. They had been only happy to teach him. 

John was still quite disturbed by the memory, it was no wonder he had repressed it. 

He had no idea who Evelyn was. 

"We must go there!" Harry grabbed hold of John, and started to drag him with her. 

"Wait," he said. "What?"

"Ma'am," called one of the Yarders. 

"You got full disclosure!" she called over her shoulder, dragging John along. "Request approved."

John saw the Yarders grin like it was Christmas. 

"Harry...," protested John. 

He didn't want to leave Martin alone, anything could happen, and then a lot of people could be in danger. 

"You are a doctor," hissed Harry with tears in her eyes. "One of my best friends are is badly injured. What good are you if you can't come with me and look at her?"

"Fine," John sighed. "I just have to make some calls."

"Do them in the car," Harry pushed him towards the lifts.


	12. Eleven

Martin was still talking on the phone so John sent him a text. He also sent one to Greg, one to Sherlock, and one to Mycroft. The one to Mycroft was probably overkill since he knew the man had all of their phones tapped. 

At the hospital John found out that Harry's friend was actually the attacked mistress. Which was, in a way, both good and bad. 

Harry was apparently also the woman's next of kin. 

"Her parents are dead and her brother disapproves of her lifestyle," said Harry as in explanation. 

John was allowed into the surgery room, but only because of his experience in extreme trauma, and because one of the surgeons they was caught in traffic. John was sad to find he was needed. 

"She was thrown out a window," informed the nurse helping him on with his sterile gloves. "Third floor."

"They didn't tell me that,," said John, looking over Evelyn's damaged body as it was being carefully put in traction. 

John's phone chimed in his back pocket with Sherlock's text-signal, but he couldn't do anything about it. He swore under his breath and helped correct a dislocated shoulder. 

It took almost three hours of effort, but Evelyn would live, albeit with several scars, a probable limp and some false teeth.

As he stepped out of surgery he was met by not only Harry and her partner Pamela in her nurse uniform, but Greg and Martin as well. 

"We found out what they wanted Freddie for," said Greg as soon as he first established that Evelyn was going to survive, and that she wasn't conscious to question. 

"The computer breach at Parliament?" asked John. 

"Distraction," said Martin sounding very nervous in a way Sherlock only sounded when he had broken something precious to John.

"They robbed the Central Bank," Greg sighed. "Several of their vault boxes are missing, and their security is offline. Sherlock thinks they were after a special box but took the others to distract even more."

"Yes," nodded Martin as Harry shot him a look. "That is exactly what I think."

"What box were they after then?" Pamela asked. 

"No comment," said Martin and hurried away, seemingly down a random corridor. 

"Is he acting more fucked up than usual?" Harry frowned. 

"Why don't you two look in on Evelyn?" said John hurriedly. "She will probably wake up soon."

As the women hurried away, John looked at Greg.

"The whole thing was a robbery?"

"Unless the special thing they stole leads to something bigger."

"Do you think they need Freddie for that as well?" 

"I hope so," Greg rubbed the back if his head. "Or else the possibility is that they get rid of him."

They stood silent for a moment, then Greg sighed. 

"I better be there as well if she wakes up," he said. "We'll keep in touch."

John let him pass and then followed Martin. He found him pacing further down the corridor. 

"Alright?" asked John. 

"Not really," Martin grumbled. "Carolyn needs both me and Arthur back for a flight tomorrow to Madrid or she'll be in danger of losing a whole lot of money, and several important clients."

"How long will you need be away?" 

"Two days, at the most," he took a deep breath. "I don't want to leave like this, especially with Freddie still missing..."

"It's inconvenient," nodded John. "But we'll make it work. You need to go, Martin. And who knows, Sherlock could have all this solved by then."

"I hope so," sighed Martin. "What you will do?"

"Tell people to mind their own business," John looked down at his hands, they were still very clean. "And I won't visit Sherlock."

"It will be hard for you."

"He and I are definitely taking a real vacation together after this," nodded John. "No case involved."

"Perhaps I could get you a discount to tag along on one of our flights." said Martin. 

"Sounds interesting."


	13. Twelve

Martin slipped away through Mrs. Hudson's backdoor to another, more inconspicuous and less expensive, car of Mycroft's. He was wearing a large knitted hat, sunglasses, his normal shoes, and Arthur's spare clothes. 

Arthur had hugged John, Mrs. Hudson, and Gladstone before following Martin. He promised to come back in two days and bring his own dog, Snoopadoop, with him for Gladstone to play with. John said that he would like that. 

After they left, John let himself be taken to the MI6-bunker. Sherlock had asked for him to come over with a change of clothes. John brought some food as well, a couple of sandwiches that Mrs. Hudson had made for them. 

"We know Freddie helped them with the alarms in at the bank," said Sherlock pushing his sandwich over to James, who grumpily took it. 

James was pissed because there was nothing he could do but wait at the moment; all leads had been dead ends. The kidnappers were geniuses at distractions, and it made Sherlock quite irritated. 

"Here," James handed him a folder. "It's copy a list of the things stolen from the security boxes. See what you think."

"You got this fast," said John taking a seat. "I didn't think the bank would be so forward about what they had in their boxes."

"Insurance," shrugged James. "And an honourable Holmes sister has quite the influence in financial circles."

"Is Jennie helping with the search too?"

"She is trying to find the money trail," said Sherlock. "It's not going well, but hopefully it will perk up now when the kidnappers have money to spend."

John looked at the list, noting that one box had stored over a million pounds in cash. Disciplined, genius, or not, that amount of temptation was not easy to overcome. 

"Freddie left a encrypted message hidden in a piece of the code unlocking the vault, but it seems he wasn't able to finish it," continued Sherlock. "Hopefully it was because he was out of time, and not that they discovered him."

"Damn it!" screamed James. "When I get him back I'm going to tie him up and never let him out of my sight again."

"I don't need to know about my little brother's sex-life, thank you," Sherlock huffed and stared between the computer screen and the jumble of scribbled notes before him.

James looked murderous, so John intervened. 

"James, why don't you come with me to the Yard and help me look at Greg's report?"

"Yeah, fine," James brought the sandwich with him as he rose. "I need to get out of here. But I'll drive, I don't like being chauffeured around."

"John is starting to enjoy it," noted Sherlock without looking up. 

John kissed the top of his boyfriend's head and left with James. 

He looked through the rest of the list as James death-defied London traffic to get them to Scotland Yard. It felt safer not to look at the road. He noticed that Sherlock had marked five posts of special interest. 

"Money, diamond jewellery, business contracts, two rare books from the nineteenth century, and some gold-coins," he read. "He probably noted the books down because he wants to look at them himself."

James snorted a laugh. 

"Tell me about your case," he sighed.

Greg was still at the hospital, but he had left orders to let John read the file. It wasn't supposed to leave the building so John and James were shown into a small conference room. James had to show a government identification to the desk sergeant be let in. 

James seemed even worse than Sherlock with confined spaces. He immediately started to pace the room, looking for bugs, muttering at the window that only opened two centimetres. 

"Sit down," said John, offering a chair and some crime scene photos. "I know how you feel."

"You don't know how I feel," spat James. 

John sighed. 

"I do," he said. "It's the feeling that something bad is happening to the most important person in your life. You don't know where, how, or why, but something is happening. It's the feeling you get when you call him heartless and then you look up and see him on the edge of a tall building."

John wiped a stray tear away. James sat down. 

There was no need to say anything more on the matter. Quietly, they started looking through the pictures and reports. Both had their mobiles clearly visible on the table in case anyone contacted them. 

"It's been a while since I worked like this," said James after about ten minutes. "I've been a field agent for twenty-two years. People usually break this stuff down for me, not the other way around. Usually I'm the assassin."

"Then look at it from that point of view," John encouraged.

"I hope you don't give that advice to Sherlock," James laughed. 

"Yeah. Though Sherlock has a tendency to turn into the teacher of the killer rather than the killer. Once he actually gave a suspect advice. Greg was furious."

"I can imagine," James shook his head. "Well, if I'm thinking like the killer... Then I don't approve of cheating, but I blame the mistress, not the person who's having an affair."

"Sherlock said in his notes that the killer could have had a cheating parent, probably the father...," John looked over the notes again.

He was interrupted by the fire alarm going off. A police officer opened the door, holding it open for them.

"Sorry," he said. "Reassemble on the courtyard, please. It's probably just a drill."

"Great," James sighed. 

John gathered the papers and photos quickly and put them back in the case-file. He held on to it tight to his chest as he and James hurried down the stairs to the exit. 

"This is a topsy-turvy day," said James as they reached the courtyard. "I'm doing non-field work, and there is a fire alarm but I haven't turned it on."

"The four horsemen of the apocalypse would arrive at any moment now," noted John with half a smile. 

An inspector John knew slightly trough a former case told them that there hadn't been any fire drill scheduled, not even a surprise one. She was irritated because she'd had to leave in the middle of an interrogation. 

A large fire truck arrived about a minute later. John had already sent off a message to Sherlock, informing him of the delay. He got a message back almost immediately. 

The Yard computers are breached. Freddie. The evidence lockers. SH

"Bugger," gasped John and showed his phone to James.

"Twice that," said James before pulling his gun, running straight past the firemen and into the building. 

Several of the gathered police stared after him before pulling their own guns and following him. 

"Bugger," repeated John. 

He followed the policemen following James. They were all running towards the stairwell and then downwards towards the evidence lockers. 

One of the police shouted at James to stand still and drop the weapon. 

"Don't shoot him," yelled John, breathing hard and hugging the file. "He's with the government! You are being robbed."

John saw that the security door to the evidence room was open, and James was slipping inside.


	14. Thirteen

John heard his phone play Sherlock's tune, but ignored it for now. He was too busy keeping an eye on the policemen and making sure that they didn't shoot James. 

They disappeared into the evidence room. John didn't follow; he was not armed and it was probably better if he stopped more people from rushing after James. 

He could hear more footsteps behind him, and the safeties being removed from several guns. 

"Doctor Watson?" said a voice belonging to Detective Inspector Dimmock. "What's going on?"

"We got a message that your computers were being hacked," John said as he watched the evidence room nervously. He couldn't see James or the police that had followed him inside. "We think they are after some of your evidence."

"You and Sherlock?" Dimmock came up beside John and tried to carefully glance inside the other room. 

"Yes," John flinched a little as his phone chirped again. "But the man in there is Commander Bond. He's with the Government, and he's helping us with our current case."

Dimmock was about to ask something else but was interrupted by loud shouts from inside the evidence room. The young DI hurried inside, with his gun ready, without hesitation. 

John carefully peaked inside. He could hear confused voices from behind him, and also a very loud angry one belonging to a superintendent demanding explanations. 

At the third chirp from his phone, reminding him of his messages, John took it out of his pocket. 

_'Freddie's aborted message indicates that the kidnappers really don't know who his employers are, SH'_

_'Jennie has found a possible money trail, SH'_

At that moment Dimmock came out of the room, he looked angry. Three more officers followed, carrying each a large box with broken red seals.

"The intruder got away with some things from these boxes," said Dimmock to John. "He escaped through an open fire door, but your friend and two officers are following him... Excuse me."

Dimmock hurried over to the angry superintendent to explain what was going on. Another officer, that John vaguely remembered working in the evidence department approached the boxes and began looking them over. 

John looked at Sherlock's messages again, feeling a bit dizzy. 

"John!" Lestrade was hurrying over to him through the gathered onlookers. "I just arrived. What's going on?"

John felt a loss for words and just handed Greg his phone. 

"Last three messages," he said. 

Greg's eyes grew larger as he read. John nodded. 

"Where's James?"

"Following the guy who broke in," John motioned towards the evidence room. 

"Lestrade!" the superintendent called Greg over.

The DI handed the phone back to John and hurried over. John didn't know what to do. He looked at the phone and texted a message to Sherlock asking where he was. 

"This just gets worse," sighed Greg, coming back. "The runner got away with some files from a highly classified ongoing case. The Super asked me to call my 'government-contact', which means Mycroft."

"We need Sherlock on this," John shook his head. "I'm sure he could figure out the link between the bank robbery and this."

"The link, my dear Dr Watson..." said the all too familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes from the doorway to the stairs. "...is Freddie, and the people selling his services.


	15. Fourteen

John, Sherlock, and Greg were being taken back to the MI-6 bunker by Tom. 

"Freddie's kidnappers are using him to get past high-security alarm systems for robberies. They don't know who he works for; they only think that he is a really good hacker."

"Why would they think that?" asked Greg. 

"Because it is his cover," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not like it says 'MI-6 quartermaster' on his work papers. Officially he is just a low-rate computer help desk clerk with a hobby tapping out code." 

Sherlock had gotten a message from M that James had caught the intruder and taken him in for questioning. M was also keeping James restrained so the agent wouldn’t beat the man to a pulp in his quest to find Q. 

Greg had gotten several angry calls from his superintendent telling him to get the intruder back to the Yard. He sighed. 

"I told him that you weren't going to let me in on the interrogation," Greg gave Sherlock a look that was ignored. "I better be, or I won't let Sherlock see what was stolen from the evidence boxes."

"I could just ask M or Mycroft to tell me," said Sherlock, uninterested. 

"After a whole lot of red tape."

John thought he might better be there for the interrogation as well. From what he heard, James had already had a few moments with the man. 

Sherlock's phone buzzed. Sherlock looked at it and then threw it to John. The display said 'The Axis of Evil'.

"Hello Mycroft," said John with a sigh. 

"John?" Mycroft's voice sounded stressed. "Do you know where Martin is?"

"Martin? On his way to Madrid, I think."

"He never arrived to the airfield, though their chauffeur said he delivered them safely. Martin's boss had to take on another pilot, a friend of hers, but she keeps in constant contact with the airfield asking about Martin and her son. She seems quite agitated."

"I don't know," John glanced to Sherlock. "You don't think anything has happened to them?"

"Like what?" Mycroft was typing something on a computer by the tapping sounds in the background. 

Sherlock grabbed his phone back from John. 

"Like the mistress-killer seeing him sneaking off covertly from Baker Street, in a disguise, holding hands with a man not John. Someone seeing that might interpret that I feared for my lover's safety and wanted to take him to a safe place."

John felt suddenly cold, he exchanged a look of terror with Greg. Both Arthur and Martin could be in danger. 

Sherlock listened to his brother for a few seconds before gesturing for John to give him the file he was holding. 

"Hey," said Greg as John turned the file and his own notes over to Sherlock. "That wasn't supposed to leave the building."

"I forgot I had it," shrugged John. 

Sherlock gave the phone to Greg who put it on speaker, and began looking through the papers, notes, and photos, his eyes moving at abnormal speeds. 

He pushed some photos aside, they landed on the seat beside him. 

"Wait!" said John, grabbing one of the pictures depicting a street view outside the second victim's house. "Yellow car."

"What?" Sherlock frowned. 

"It's a game Martin and Arthur plays," explained John. "There was a yellow car outside the minister's house as well. Look, there's a yellow car in this photo. Down the street."

"Now that you mention it...," said Greg. "Martin said something about a yellow car when we drove to the hospital earlier. He said he saw one and that it was a game. But are you saying that it's the same yellow car? That it is the killer's car?"

"Not impossible," said Sherlock and took the photo from John, looking at it closer through his pocket magnifying glass. "It's not a common car colour in London. Send the picture to Mycroft. The first letter in the licence plate is a C or a G, can't to tell more because it's blocked." 

Greg took a photograph with Sherlock's phone and sent it to Mycroft.

"Got it," said Mycroft's voice. 

"What's your theory, then?" sighed Greg, looking at Sherlock. "Why would the killer go for them? You and John aren't married, and you had only been official for a few hours. And he has only attacked when the mistress was alone."

"I would believe it started as a simple personal revenge," said Mycroft's voice from the phone. "Perhaps for a cheating parent or spouse."

"But now he likes it," continued Sherlock. "It started as revenge, now he wants more judging on how he's escalating the violence. He still concentrates on mistresses though, feeling that he is vindicating himself. He probably also felt that we’ve gotten too close to him. John and Martin might even have met him..."

There was a female voice talking in the background from the phone (probably Anthea); Mycroft answered her but John couldn't distinguish any words. 

"Do you think they are hurt?" asked John, feeling worried. 

"We have found a matching yellow car on some CCTV tapes corresponding with the murders," said Mycroft. "We are searching it's plates. The first letter was an O."

"Always something," muttered Sherlock under his breath. 

"Concentrate," hissed John. 

"My guess," said Sherlock looking up from John's notebook. "Is that it is the third victim who's the original target. And the killer is likely to have a close connection with the minister."

"The car is registered to an address in Oxford," said Anthea's voice from the phone. 

"The minister's son studies in Oxford," John remembered. "The third victim!"

Sherlock told Tom to stop the car, and then turned to Greg. 

"I'm giving this interrogation to you. Freddie is kidnapped by idiots while Martin and Arthur are kidnapped by a killer. This shifts my priority."

"I understand," nodded Greg, getting out of the car. "I'll call for a ride. Good luck. Stay in touch."


	16. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I don't have a name for the minister's wife, she was never meant to be a reoccurring character.

"How did you figure it was the third victim?" asked John.

Tom had turned the car around, driving through the city towards the minister's house.

"It was the only adulterer who had a spouse who knew they were being cheated on," explained Sherlock.

"But why kill the other two? Or why not at least begin with his father's mistress before moving on to the others?"

"I suspect for a number of reasons," Sherlock was going through the file again. "Practice, anger that his father was not the only politician hurting their spouse, and also he probably wanted his parents out of the country so the mother wouldn't be a suspect."

"Yes, they were in Paris when the third victim was killed," nodded John. "But why Evelyn? And why 'us'?"

"He probably sees himself as some kind of avenger now," Sherlock shrugged. "He has found his cause."

John shook his head. He watched Sherlock take out a pen and make a few corrections in the notes.

After five minutes the car pulled up beside the minister's house. There was a small removal lorry on the driveway.

"She's moving out," noted John, stating the obvious since Sherlock refused to.

They stepped out of the car and walked over to the house. The wife was there, directing a removal man to carry an armchair to the lorry.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," said John hurriedly before Sherlock had time to shoot of a line of unpleasantness. "Dr. Watson, do you remember me? We are looking for your son."

"Of course I remember you, Doctor..." She blinked in surprise when she looked Sherlock, her eyes darting down the street. "What... I mean... Why are you looking for David?"

John was going to do a quick and aversive explanation, but Sherlock stepped in front of him.

"You seem surprised to see me," said Sherlock leaning in a bit to look more intimidating.

"Not at all Mr. Holmes," she smiled her politician's wife's smile.

"And why aren't you?" Sherlock hovered closer.

"What?"

"If I were you I would be terrified to see me," he moved even closer to her. "But I suspect that you already figured out that I'm not the same man you talked to before, and trying to cover it up."

"Sherlock?" John frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about her for a moment being terrified that I had gotten away," Sherlock took hold of the woman's arm. "Where are they?"

"What's going on?" asked the man holding the armchair.

John was wondering the same thing.

Sherlock didn't look away from the wife. "What's going on is that this lady is protecting a killer. You might think that you are helping your son in removing mistresses from the world. But your latest couple, as you see, are completely faithful to each other. Test your morals against that!"

John was catching on fast. "You mean that... she knew!"

"John, get Tom!" said Sherlock, taking a firmer grip of the woman.

John didn't have to, Tom was already there, gun in hand. He glanced to the mover.

"You better sit this one out."

"Sure, mate," the man dropped the chair and backed away. "Whatever you say."

"Where are they?" growled Sherlock, lifting her to her toes by the force of his grip on her blouse.

She was crying, and John would have said something if he hadn't personally held Evelyn's broken body just hours before.

"Oh god," she breathed, her voice cracking with genuine tears. "I swear to you that I didn't know before that poor woman got pushed out of that window... He told me... And I said I'd protect him... But, oh god, I only wanted..."

"You wanted him to turn himself in," said Sherlock sternly. "You were buying time to convince him to do that."

She nodded, her trained face had given up and was now ugly with running makeup, sorrow, and regret.

"I never wanted you to get hurt..." She sobbed. "You, he, was so nice to me, talking about my father when..."

"Where are they?" interrupted Sherlock, giving her a rough shake. "Tell me where they are!"

"I don't know," she cried.

Again John's morals made some quiet protests, but he kept in mind the sound of dislocated bone sliding into place. He looked away down the street.

"Sherlock!" he called. "Yellow car!"

Sherlock reacted immediacy by pushing the woman aside, and running towards the street. John was able to see the face of utter shock on the driver of the yellow car before it turned rapidly around and sped down the street.

Sherlock had already jumped inside the driver seat of the large black town car and started it up. Engines, gears and wheels made a monetarily cacophony of sounds as Sherlock turned the car and roared off in pursuit.

"If this detective business doesn't pay up," said Tom, looking impressed. "He can have my job."

John was quite impressed himself, and not a little turned on.


	17. Sixteen

The minister's wife sat down in her armchair in the middle of the driveway, looking sad and exhausted. Tom was comforting her, as he circled her wrists with a plastic restraint.

"Shall I put all the stuff back inside?" the removal man asked John hesitantly, pointing to his lorry.

"I don't know, maybe you should wait for the police and ask them."

John was alternating between looking down the street and looking at his phone. He wanted to call someone, but was afraid that he was going to miss a call from Sherlock if he did. What if there was an road accident?

"Mr. Holmes is on his way," said Tom.

Good, Mycroft would know what to do. John started pacing. He was just about to run into the house to look for a phone there, when something exploded a couple of blocks away.

"Holy fuck," said the removal man.

John was panicking for a few moments before realising that car accidents didn't produce such explosions outside cinema. Also, by the location of the smoke, the explosion had been close to the river, not in the direction the yellow car had been going.

"David!"

The minister's wife didn't make the same deductions. Tom had to hold on to her as she panicked and then slumped down on the ground in a crying heap. John felt he should tell her the truth, but was interrupted by Mycroft and three police cars arriving.

"Ah," said Mycroft following John's gaze to the pillar of smoke. "As you see, Mr. Bond has found the location of my brother's whereabouts."

"Are they alright?"

"I believe so."

"What about Sherlock?"

"What about Sherlock?" Mycroft looked over at Tom, the crying woman, and the remover. "Is he inside the house?"

"He's doing a wild car chase with the mistress killer!" John shouted. "How do you not know that?!"

Mycroft blinked.

"But Martin and Arthur are inside the house."

"They are?" John turned to look at the door.

"How do you not know that?" quipped Mycroft and passed John. "They are in the cellar. Didn't you see the shoe impressions on the lawn?"

John was very close to jumping Mycroft's back when his phone rang with Sherlock's signal.

"Sherlock oh my god where are you?" blurted John. "Are you hurt did you get him where are you?!"

"Martin and Arthur are in the cellar."

"I know, Mycroft told me," John was following the other brother inside the house. "Where are you?"

"Mycroft told you?!" spat Sherlock in irritation. "Well did he tell you that David and his mother are working together? And that she made him do the murders?"

"No," John stopped and turned back around to warn Tom and the police. "He didn't."

"Ha!" Sherlock gloated.

"It's not competition."

"Of course it is."

The minister's wife, whose name had been Angela, had been easy to overpower. She was still under the impression that her son had been in the explosion. No one bothered to tell her the truth since the shock made her docile.

The truth was that Sherlock had managed to press the yellow car off the road in the area of Knightsbridge, and then wrestled the driver to the ground. There was already a tow-truck, two ambulances, Lestrade in a government car, and four police vehicles heading towards them.

"How is he?" asked Martin worriedly.

Arthur had been knocked unconscious by a hard blow to the head, and there was a large bruise over his left temple. Martin had been tied up, out of reach, left to watch his non-responsive boyfriend on the floor.

It was supposed to be the next step in the mother-and-son killer duo's repertoire, making the cheater watch as the lover was killed. Luckily, they hadn't been able to fulfill their plan, because the minister would have known for certain if his wife and son committed murder in the cellar. 

The minister himself was at work. He had been sent for. By the sounds of it he hadn't known anything was wrong.

"Follow my finger with your eyes," John moved a finger before Arthur, who followed it dizzily. "I think he has a slight concussion, better go to the hospital to check it out."

"But he's alright? Right?" Martin was gripping Arthur's hand.

"Skip, you have really blue eyes," mused Arthur.

"Love," sighed Martin. "You are looking at John. I'm over here. My eyes are grey."

"Grey blue," said Arthur without looking away from John. "With specks of green."

"He's most probably going to be fine," assured John. "But we need to keep an eye on him and his symptoms, and see to that he gets plenty of rest."

"Thank god," Martin breathed and embraced Arthur carefully to his chest. "How did you know where we were?"

"The yellow car. Your game made us aware that there had been a yellow car near all the crime scenes."

"Did you hear that, Arthur?" Martin laughed. "Your game saved the day and caught a killer."

"Yay?" said Arthur with a confused smile. "That's good, isn't it?"

John laughed and looked up at Mycroft, who was standing not far from them talking to James on the phone. Mycroft noticed John looking and rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Bond, though I am aware of your usual procedure in these matters, I must insist that a professional medic examine my brother before you take him away for your celebratory ravishment."

It sounded to John that James thought Freddie to be in good health. He exchanged an amused glance with Martin.

"What if you take him to John's practice?" sighed Mycroft. "Do you trust John to take a look at him?" He paused and listened. "Good, see you there then."

"Can we come with?" asked Martin. "After all this I think we deserve to see that Freddie is all right."

"Of course," said Mycroft approaching. "But I'll call for an ambulance to take you so they can check on Arthur on the way."

"Thank you."

"By the way," Mycroft handed Martin a phone. "Call your boss, she's very worried."

"Oh, thanks."

John gave Arthur another once over before following Mycroft to the car. He would rather have gone to Sherlock, but knew that he would be of more use looking over Freddie.

Hopefully Sherlock would arrive soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the wrap-up and the epilogue to go now :)


	18. Seventeen

"They were all wankers," huffed Freddie while John shone a small light in his eyes. "The tasks they gave me were so simple they were insulting." 

"Please take off your shirt," said John. 

"Why can't I ever be kidnapped by professionals that know what they are doing?"

Except for a large nasty blue and yellow bruise over his right cheekbone, Freddie seemed uninjured. He also had some hand-shaped marks over his chest and arms, like someone had struggled to hold him down. John noticed that James breathed harder. 

"I actually had to show them how one of the interfaces worked!"

"God," Mycroft rubbed his face. "With you giving advice to hackers and Sherlock giving advice to murderers I don't know how this country keeps running. What did they want you to do?"

"At the bank they were after some incriminating business documents," continued Freddie, ignoring James' reactions. "At the Yard they were after some photos. Apparently some of the surveillance had caught someone that didn't want to be caught on camera. They made me delete the digital copies as well, though I saved them on a hidden server. Idiots never noticed."

"Quiet for a moment," said John taking on his stethoscope. "So I can listen to your heart and lungs."

Freddie sat still, breathing. James kissed his hand. John smiled when he heard Freddie's increasing heartbeat. 

"You're fine," John moved away. "You can put you shirt back on now."

"And the breach in Parliament?" Mycroft looked up from his texting. "We didn't find anything missing."

"Copied," said Freddie. "They wanted your file. I set the alarms off on purpose. That's when I got this," he pointed to his face. 

"My file?" Mycroft frowned. "My real one or the mock one?"

"The mock one," Freddie smirked. "Though your real file is a mock as well."

"Of course it is," huffed Mycroft. "As if I would even have a file. Why were they interested in me?"

"Because...," said Sherlock stepping inside the room with his coat hanging like a robe from his shoulders as if he were a Shakespearean actor that had been waiting for his cue, "Brother dear, you have shown too many of your cards. Your 'minor position' in the government has grown."

"Only because you get in trouble and I have to come out to save you!"

"Trivialities." 

Sherlock waived his hand, revealing that his shirt had been cut open and bloody, and that his left arm was in heavy bandages. John felt his heart skip a beat. 

"Sherlock!"

"Ah, this," Sherlock held up his arm, letting his coat fall to the floor. "Did you know that shatterproof car-glass only works from the outside in, not the inside out?"

"Yes," said John grabbing hold of Sherlock and hugging him to his chest. 

"I knew that too," Sherlock breathed into John's neck. 

Freddie laughed. 

"How many painkillers did the paramedics give you before you ran away from them?"

"Enough," grinned Sherlock. "I saw the explosion by the way."

"James likes them."

"Are we finished here, doc?" asked James impatiently. "Q needs to go home and get some rest."

John knew exactly what kind of rest James meant. It was the same kind of rest that John was going to give Sherlock as soon as he had checked, and redone, the bandages on the man's arm. 

"Fine," John sighed and directed Sherlock to a chair. "But go upstairs and say hello to Martin and Arthur first."

"Yes," said Freddie. "I'd love to see Martin in Sherlock's hairdo.


	19. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in this part. I have an other part planned out, but I have to prioritise other projects first. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. And special thanks to my beta Memprime.

One day later John, Sherlock and Gladstone were at a private airfield seeing off Martin and Arthur. Carolyn, Arthur's mother, had insisted on giving her 'two boys' a ride home in the plane rather than letting them drive to Fitton. 

Mycroft had covered the landing fee, which only meant that the plane had been temporarily assigned diplomatic status and landed for free. 

"She was actually happy," said Martin as they waited on the tarmac to see the plane taxi in. "After getting over the initial chock."

John nodded. He had heard the conversation Martin had had with his employer. He had managed, all in one jumbled sentence, to tell Carolyn that Arthur had a conclusion, that they were in a relationship, and that Arthur's yellow car game had saved the day. It was quite an impressive sentence. 

"Mum said that we all deserved each other," said Arthur hugging Gladstone goodbye. "Isn't that nice?"

"Absolutely," sighed Sherlock in a bored tone. 

He'd had to cut his hair to Martin's length, and wasn't happy about it. Arthur, who still was a bit confused beyond his normal self, had hugged him several times and was constantly seeking his hand if Martin wasn't closer. Both Martin and John found it hilarious. 

Except for the slight height difference and their postures Sherlock and Martin could possibly be twins at the moment. John could clearly see the small differences in their faces, though, like how Sherlock's chin was a bit stronger. Several of the airport ground staff had looked twice as they passed. 

"Thank you," said Martin, shaking John's hand. 

"No, thank you," said John. "We dragged you into this."

"It was an adventure," Martin grinned in a way that made him look like a sincere version of Sherlock, which was a bit scary. "And being there in the cellar... ...thinking Arthur could... I thought of you, actually..."

He paused, glancing over to Sherlock, who pretended to ignore everyone. John knew what Martin was aiming at. Seeing someone you love die in front of you changes a man. He took a breath and nodded. There was no need for more words. 

"Arthur!" a woman's strong voice carried over the tarmac. 

John looked up to see that the plane had landed and Carolyn was hurrying down the stairs. She was in her mid-sixties but could still muster quite some speed as she jogged towards them. 

"Mum!" smiled Arthur, letting go of Sherlock's hand. 

"Finally," muttered Sherlock.

"Don't be like that," said John. "You like Arthur."

"His stupidity is tolerable," admitted Sherlock.

John laughed and smiled as Carolyn hugged Martin and then began scolding him. 

"Shall we head home?" he asked, pulling Gladstone's lead since the dog showed signs of wanting to storm the plane. 

"Let's go by Bart's," Sherlock took John's hand. "Molly's got herself an invitation to a rather interesting medical convention, I'm making her take me with her."

"If course you are," grinned John. 

 

The end.


End file.
